


Cremona Revisted

by Minim Calibre (minim_calibre)



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Gen, Horrible hotels, Ill-advised bets, rodents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 08:09:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1891653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minim_calibre/pseuds/Minim%20Calibre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which MJN Air returns to Cremona, and nothing happens that's at all out of the ordinary, by MJN standards of ordinary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cremona Revisted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Venturous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Venturous/gifts).



"Wonderful news, pilots!" Carolyn sounds smug and excited, which, in Douglas's experience, has never meant anything close to wonderful news. "We have been blessed with a job for tomorrow, one which will ensure that MJN Air shall live to fly for another day."

"And where, might I ask, will this job be taking us?" Martin lifts his head from his stack of paperwork, a mighty task, considering that Sir is still wearing Sir's mighty crown of gold braid and overcompensation. 

Carolyn sets the flight plan between them with a flourish. "We shall be returning to Cremona."

"Ah, Cremona," Douglas peers at it. Standard stuff, really. Fly in Friday evening, return late on Saturday. "And what sort of passenger are we taking to explore the delights that Northern Italy has to offer this time? A down on his luck actor, perhaps, best known for his role as, I don't know, Merlin, the dragon-slaying werewolf?" 

"Ha ha, I'm sure you find yourself very amusing, Douglas."

"As a matter of fact, I do." 

"No, nothing so exciting as that, thank goodness. There shall be no more Hester Macaulays, not unless they pay me very well and in, as they used to say, ready money. I don't think I could take another flight with Arthur being so very Arthur the whole way without adequate and guaranteed recompense. We are flying a lovely group of five charming women down for a hen night, then returning them none the worse for wear--at least not on our account--in time for the wedding."

"They'll be staying at the Excelsior, I presume?" Martin asks, looking for all the world as though a sudden and nasty smell has invaded the room. "Whilst we'll be enjoying our stay at the Garibaldi?"

"That's the best part! I have a surprise for the two of you: you shall _not_ be staying at the Garibaldi."

"Oh!" Martin's face perks up a bit, "Not the Excelsior, surely?" So optimistic. Perhaps Arthur's been rubbing off on him, and isn't that a dreadful thought? 

"Surely not," and Martin's face falls. "Far better than the Excelsior." It perks up again--definitely rubbing off on him. "And far cheaper, as well. We shall be staying at the Vespasian. I've booked a room for me and one for the three of you."

"One room, for the three of us?" Martin repeats. 

"Oh, cheer up, Martin," Douglas responds, "It can't possibly be worse than the Garibaldi."

Martin signs yet another piece of paperwork, sets it in the done pile, starts in on another, and sighs. "Even I wouldn't bet on that, Douglas." 

"Wouldn't you? I would. Tell you what, I'll bet you twenty pounds."

"Twenty pounds that it isn't worse than the Garibaldi?" He frowns, and the hat slips down on his forehead. He pushes it back up, a motion that Douglas has determined is instinctive by now. "What's the catch?"

"No catch, I simply believe that, if there were a worse hotel than the Garibaldi, Carolyn would have found it by now."

* * *

If there is one rule that Douglas regrets never quite remembering, it's never underestimate Carolyn Knapp-Shappey, not when spending--or rather, not spending--money is involved. 

The Vespasian is truly impressive, in the same way that the Plague is truly impressive, or perhaps even the Inquisition. And that's just the lobby. He counts no fewer than five burnt-out bulbs. It gives the place a certain dim sort of charm, like a cave. A particularly damp cave, the sort one would see in a horror film, or a nature programme about vampire bats. He shudders.

Arthur goes off ahead with the room key, whilst he and Martin are left struggling with theirs and Carolyn's luggage and Carolyn haggles with the beleaguered concierge, taking full advantage of the lack of a porter to push for an additional discount.

* * *

"Mum! Mum! Can I keep it? Please?" 

The... thing in Arthur's arms squirms. It has beady eyes, a long, hairless tail, and a smirking mouth that's open to reveal an overgrown set of hideously yellow and impressively sharp incisors. 

Martin shrieks. His luggage falls to the floor with a clatter that shouldn't be possible, given the carpeting. If it is carpeting. It may just be a particularly vigorous bit of mildew on tile. "Dear lord, what on earth is that?"

"That, Martin, is the largest rat I have ever had the dubious privilege of seeing, even if I include Helena's tai chi instructor in the genus _rattus_ , which, as it so happens, I do." 

Even Carolyn's looking a bit pale at the sight of it. They all are, except for Arthur, who hasn't looked so excited since Mr Birling gave him fifty pounds to go, and this is a direct quote, "Bugger off and learn to spell Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch." (Sanddropspoggywillygodropussandysillygogogo, if you are Arthur, apparently.)

Still, Carolyn's nothing if not an expert in girding her loins and barking out orders. "Arthur Shappey, you most certainly may not. Put that thing back where you found it this instant, and when you're finished, promptly go douse yourself in a vat of disinfectant."

With a sad sigh, Arthur cuddles the creature close to his chest. "Sorry, Mr Honeyfluff. But you heard Mum." And then shuffles sadly over to the bed nearest the door and sets it on the pillow. Good lord. 

As much as Douglas is dreading the answer, he has to ask, "Out of curiousity, Arthur, and do feel free to spare my nightmares by lying, is that pillow really where you found Mr Honeyfluff?"

"Oh, no!" Arthur responds as sunnily as only an Arthur can, and for a moment, Douglas feels the tiniest bit of relief that perhaps Carolyn has not outdone herself on their accommodations. Only for a moment, a moment quickly smothered before it can draw its first hopeful breath by Arthur following that delightful denial with, "He was all cuddled under the covers with Mrs Honeyfluff. I don't think she liked me, though. She's under the bed with all the little Honeyfluff babies."

"How... many Honeyfluff babies?" Martin slowly asks, his voice rising in dread until it cracks on the penultimate syllable of the word babies, which Douglas files away for later flight deck ribbing. 

"Oh, loads!" Wonderful. "At least a dozen."

There's a long wordless pause, one that would have been called a silence were it not for Arthur's frankly appalling attempts at whistling.

"Gentlemen," Carolyn says, drawing herself up to her full height, shoulders up and posture impressively military. "Much as I do hate to waste the many, many Euros I spent, I do believe we will be finding other accommodations."

"Great!" Arthur chirps. "Can I bring Mr Honeyfluff?"

His request is met with three voices shouting "NO!" in horrified harmony.

"Carolyn," Douglas drawls. "I believe I owe Martin 20 pounds. I hadn't thought it possible that you could find a hotel even less appealing than the Garibaldi. Congratulations, you've outdone yourself."


End file.
